


First Chair

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Eighties Fashion, Eighties Pop Culture References and Music, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, High School Marching Band AU, M/M, Popular Kid Bucky, Sassy Steve Rogers, Skinny Steve, Stucky - Freeform, Ugly Uniforms, the author is a horrible person, yes I said MARCHING BAND
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 10:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8140111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Steve Rogers was a “Band Geek” and proud, damn it. Maybe it didn’t make him popular, but he could fit in just fine with this big, loud group of misfits, primadonnas and poindexters, because there was safety in numbers. 
Now if only that annoying Bucky Barnes would get off his case, already, and quit giving him those stupid looks from the brass section, he’d be all set.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There is no excuse for this. It hit me hard today that I wanted to write a high school band AU. I was a band geek thirty years ago myself, ugly polyester uniform with epaulettes, nubuck leather shoes, Q-tip hat and all. I don’t think this is a niche that anyone wanted filled, but tough noogies, folks. I’M FILLING IT.
> 
> Additionally, just so you know, this is going to be set in the EIGHTIES. You're frickin' WELCOME.

“That was terrible. Ridiculous. I know every last one of you knows what a crescendo is,” Fury scolded. His tone was flat, dark eyes unamused. He was gripping the music stand and gesturing to the room at large. “I don’t just want a few of you to rise in volume when you get around to it. Everyone should be looking up _here_. At _me_.” His head jerked around at the sound of low titters. “Can it, Hill.”

“We love looking at you, Mr. Fury,” Maria insisted.

“That’s because I’m _breathtaking_ ,” he boomed. That earned him a few snickers, and he puffed up noticeably, but his expression was still stern and Tired of Everyone’s Shit. “You should be reading your music and watching for the change, but you also need to keep an eye on _me_ when I lead you to that crescendo, and you have to be ready for it! And to you woodwinds in the back, where are my third clarinets?” He tapped the music sheet with his baton. “You’re getting lost. I’m going to work with each section, because I expect all of you to pull your own weight.”

That earned him a round of groans, and Clint carping from the drum line in back, “Yeah, you guys need to pull your weight! Quit expecting us to carry your lazy butts-”

“Can it, Barton.”

“Sorry.”

“And thanks for volunteering your section to go first,” Fury added as he climbed the tiers toward the percussion row. 

“I hate sectionals,” Steve muttered under his breath.

“Why? It gets you caught up,” Natasha argued. “If you mess up in sectionals, it’s just you and the people who play the same part you do. You know we’re judging you, but it’s better than messing up in front of the whole group.” Her expression was smug, and Steve gave her a dirty look.

The difference was that in the whole group, Steve could get lost in that wall of sound. If he missed a note or was too slow on a run or his reed squeaked in the higher registers, Fury wouldn’t call him out directly. Mind you, he _would_ give his whole _section_ that “I’m keeping my eye on you” look, gesturing with his fingers to his eyeballs and then pointing _right at Steve_ , and Steve would hunch even further into the uncomfortable folding chair, face hot all the way up to the tips of his ears.

Nat didn’t have anything to worry about. Nat had played first clarinet since fifth grade and was first chair during concert season. Out on the field during halftime, Nat was in the color guard, anyway, spinning a rifle in her sequined bodysuit and cumberbund, but she still got credit for band as a music elective. Steve wasn’t a passionate clarinet player, but his mom reminded him that it took her two years to pay off the clarinet, and that she was going to get her money’s worth, which meant that she expected to snap pictures of him at every game halftime, parade and winter concert. His guidance counselor kept signing him back up for it because all of the art classes he wanted were overbooked. 

Steve noticed his reed had a huge chip in it and decided to change it while Nick worked with the drums. Clint, his older brother Barney (who was also in Stage Band), Bobbi and Alex (a transplant from a fancy private school in Westchester) were on snare, while Peter and Scott were on bass drum, and Hank used a heavy hand on the cymbals. Heavy Hands was the nickname he had stitched onto his band hoodie when Fury ordered them, though, so no harm done. Steve took the small plastic sleeve out of his clarinet case and removed the fresh reed, grimacing when he noticed how damp the old one was.

Nat scrunched up her nose. “Ick. Drool.”

“That’s because Rogers is a mouth breather,” Tony quipped from behind them. The strawberry blonde to his left flicked him in the side of the neck. “Ow!”

“Be nice,” she warned. “Whole floor’s covered in drool by the end of the day, hello?” Because that was the worst thing about woodwind and brass instruments. That, and the faint reek of halitosis that wafted up at Steve when he was disassembling his horn and putting it away. 

Nick went over the piece, a medley of Kool and the Gang songs that they were playing at the pep rally in two weeks. The drummers kept rigid postures and Steve entertained himself with watching Nick from behind. The gestures and the way he moved when he directed them was always comical to watch, and Nick snapped out orders like a drill sergeant. Clint kept time as he beat out the notes by tapping his Conversed foot, and Steve wondered if he had his hearing aid turned down; Steve definitely had to during rehearsals, and the pep rally was unfortunately going to be held in the gym. The echoes of music bouncing off the gym floor, the bleachers and glass panes and the clamor from the crowd always made him twitchy.

Steve anchored the reed to the mouthpiece, screwing on the clip. His upper lip was already sore, but class was almost over, and then he had health left before final bell. He dampened the reed slightly, but he felt eyes on him from across the room, and his cheeks sparked again. 

Bucky gave him that little smirk again, the one Steve couldn’t stand, when the right corner of his mouth curled first, and the left acted like it couldn’t make up its mind whether to follow. Once both sides got with the program, that smile was broad, eyes twinkling they way Bucky usually reserved for that moment before he said something smart-assed, like-

“C’mon, Rogers. Suck it. Get it nice and wet for me.” His voice was pure raunch, better suited for a keg party during a game of quarters.

“Oh, my God,” Pepper yelped, eyes round.

“I didn’t need to hear that. And I will never be able to unimagine that now, Barnes. Asshole,” Tony hissed. 

“What’s your malfunction, Bucky?” Natasha harped, chin jutting and arms crossed under her breasts. 

“You’re demented,” Sam agreed, elbowing Bucky. 

“Sam’s right,” Steve told him emphatically.

“I won’t tolerate profanity in my class. You signed a contract at the beginning of the year, Mr. Barnes,” Nick warned from the back of the room. “You’re looking at a demerit and a trip to the office if you keep that up.”

“What? He just changed his reed,” Bucky argued, pointing to Steve and making it _that much worse_. “It’s gotta be wet.”

“Barnes.” 

Bucky held up his hands and mimed buttoning his lips shut. They were red from playing his trombone, pursing them around that metal mouthpiece. Not that it did anything for Steve, or anything. 

Not at all.

*

Steve survived his sectional practice with no more embarrassment than usual. “I’d like to see you practicing more at home,” Fury reminded him. “It would be nice if you could nail those runs in the refrain.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t lift your fingers so far up off the keys.”

“Okay.” It was a common nag from his band director, again, since fifth grade. His middle school instructor, Mrs. Hunter, used to praise him for his long, slender fingers (his mom called them “artist’s fingers”) but would scold him every time for lifting them too high. 

“You have another week to get this piece memorized,” Nick added just to make his day even more special. “I don’t want to see music holders in the stands when we play against Massachusetts Academy. You can’t read music and find your mark on the field.” Because band formations were the other bane of his existence. But, more on that later.

Steve was beginning to wish he’d just taken Chorus or Music Theory.

He caught Bucky giving him those looks again, periodically nudging Sam, who kept chuckling at something he said, but when Steve would give him a warning scowl, Bucky would just shrug back. 

“What, Rogers? Take a picture, it’ll last longer, sheesh!”

Steve was _so_ done.

*

Health class wasn’t any better. Embarrassing films, awful discussion about masturbation that left him hiding behind his textbook during most of the lecture and wanting to shrink into the floor. Nat was in this class, too. She was drawing a sketch in the margins of her notes. It was of Clint, who at the moment was slumped in the second row of desks, asleep and drooling on his desk.

There. Even percussionists spread drool once in a while. Steve almost felt vindicated. It was a shame when Nat finally shot one of her hair elastics at Clint, hitting him in the back of the head and waking him with a jerk. She gave him a shit-eating grin, earning his squint and an impolite gesture when their teacher’s back was turned that made her snicker.

Final bell meant having to shuffle around in his locker and decide how many of his books he could manage to stuff into his backpack and still have to carry his clarinet home on the cramped bus. It was worse in middle school, when he had to carry all of his stuff on foot, before he lived far enough away to have to ride the bus every day. His mom had a daily commute on the Peter Pan that was an hour and a half each way, cheaper than driving herself when you added up the gas. Steve tucked his Algebra II and US History texts inside his Jansport pack, then managed to wad up his gym clothes (they were ripe) and cram those in, too. He busied himself with his note cards from history while his homeroom teacher droned on about the upcoming field hockey practices for one of his classmates who was on that team. The bell finally rang following boring announcements for yearbook photos and where to buy dance tickets in the cafeteria. Steve didn’t rush for the door, since he usually ended up being shoved out of the way. That much hadn’t changed since grade school…

He headed outside into the fresh air; the cool autumn morning gave him false hope that he would need long sleeves for the whole day, and now it was blazing hot, making him sweat. Steve felt himself buffeted by people who acted like they didn’t see him as they rushed past. He gripped the handle of his instrument case more tightly and felt his backpack strap being jerked down his arm by someone who bumped him.

“Watch it!” he hissed after them, and the offender turned back and smirked down at him.

“Go home and crack those books, Rogers!” Bucky teased, and Steve resented him. Bucky only had one book under his arm and his trombone case. He was dressed in a Benetton polo with a horrendously loud color block design on it and Z Cavaricci jeans. He wore a braided friendship bracelet on one wrist and a white Swatch on the other. Bucky’s parents had money, but he also worked at their local Strawberries’ record store that summer, so he could afford the occasional trip to Filene’s, Jordan Marsh or Macy’s. Steve frequented Sears’ clearance racks and Hit or Miss. Steve wouldn’t admit that Bucky looked sharp in the trendy clothes, or that he smelled pretty good at the moment, his end of the day sweat sharpening his deodorant and the remnants of his Polo cologne.

“Well, duh,” Steve muttered under his breath. “Watch where you’re going, Barnes.”

What was worse was when Bucky grinned and fell into step with him, shoving himself in front of Steve before he could reach the swinging exit door. “You probably want me to get this for you, don’t you?” He blocked Steve’s way out, and Steve rolled his eyes up at him.

“Buck. MOVE.”’

“That’s not polite! That’s bad citizenship in the student handbook, Steve!” He pronounced his name with extra scolding in his tone, eyes aghast and shaking his finger at Steve like a school marm. He still wouldn’t move.

“I’m gonna miss my bus.”

“Say the password.”

“Up yours.”

“EEENNNHHHH!” Bucky made the sound of a game show buzzer, cupping his hand around his mouth to magnify it. “That is INCORRECT!”

“Get bent,” Steve huffed.

“How _rude_.”

Steve deflated, throwing up his free hand, clarinet case swinging slightly. “Buck. C’mon.”

Those slate blue eyes were filled with mischief. “ _You_ c’mon. Say the password.”

“Bucky. Please move.”

Steve was so irritated and tired, and letting Bucky bait him further wouldn’t get him onto his bus.

Bucky grinned, then stood aside with a flourish, opening the door for him. “Open sesame.”

“Open, sez you,” Steve quipped back. “You’re hilarious.”

“Awww.” Bucky preened and batted his lashes at him, and Steve tried - and failed - not to brush up against Bucky as he went through the door, because _someone_ had no understanding of personal space. Steve tried to hide his shiver as his arm grazed Bucky’s shirt on his way through the door. “You’re welcome.”

Steve managed to catch the last empty seat on the back of the school bus, and he crammed himself against the window, clarinet case set beside him. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he’d dragged a bit of Bucky’s scent with him, the hint of Polo rising over the rubbery scent of the bus seat upholstery.


End file.
